Life and Other Inconveniences

by Kristan Higgins

  I gave a small smile back. No, I hadn’t known, and I was more than a little dazzled. That was quite an act of generosity on Genevieve’s part. And anonymously at that! It was . . . selfless. Go figure. Gigi usually liked the London name spread far and wide, engraved in marble if at all possible.

  Being at Rose Hill three afternoons a week meant I got to spend more time with Hope. Her seizures, which had been well controlled for a long time, seemed to be coming back, and her neurology team was adjusting her meds.

  I had always known that Hope’s life expectancy was up in the air. Her disorder was complex; Hope had tumors, hundreds of them, all benign, on her brain, heart, kidneys, liver, eyes. She’d had two brain surgeries so far and might well need another. Being her guardian wasn’t going to be easy, but I was so, so glad I’d forced the issue. Genevieve could’ve picked her attorney or, God forbid, even my father.

  Most children at Rose Hill didn’t have tuberous sclerosis, which was a rare genetic disorder. There were about eighteen kids here with a variety of conditions—traumatic brain injury, microcephaly, severe autism, neurodegenerative disorders. I’d been reading as much literature as I could get my hands on, talking to Calista, getting referrals to doctors at the children’s hospitals here in Connecticut so I’d be better informed.

  My first session at Rose Hill was with the family of a beautiful four-year-old boy with so many medical complications that he needed 24-7 medical care and supervision. They’d done their absolute best, but the medical bills were killing them, and he needed more care than they could give. The parents broke down, sobbing at the thought of not living with their son, and suddenly, though maybe it broke some therapy rules, I was on my knees in front of them, hugging them, and found I was teary-eyed, too. “There’s no easy way to do this,” I said. “No easy way.”

  “Thank you,” whispered the mom. “Does anyone get okay with this? Do you know any of the family members here?”

  “Actually,” I said, “my sister’s a resident here.” The director and I had talked about bringing up my own issues, which I felt would only be okay if asked directly. “She’s fourteen and has been here since she was three. She’s really a happy kid, and this place has been great for her.”

  Their faces brightened a little, and I knew it had been the right thing to say.

  I’d always been tentative around my clients when they were in extreme pain. And what could be more painful than leaving your child, no matter how beautiful the facility, how wonderful the staff? It was brave and horrible, acknowledging that, in some cases, your child needed more than you could give.

  Some parents, like my own father and whoever Hope’s mother was, were relieved not to care for their kids anymore. Clark might not have signed away his rights the way Hope’s mother had, but he was a nonperson to my sister. I did wonder why he hadn’t abdicated his rights, too. He’d always been more than happy to foist his children off on Genevieve. Not that I was bitter. (Hint. I was.)

  On Friday afternoon, I left Rose Hill after smooching up Hope, who was a little sleepy from her meds, and headed back to Stoningham. My grip tightened on the steering wheel as I followed the car’s directions. I was going to Jamilah’s, because Riley was having a sleepover weekend there. Both nights. Helga had gone to visit her sister—I pictured them in a dark forest together, their house on chicken legs, like Baba Yaga’s, surrounded by a fence made of bones.

  Not only that—Genevieve and Donelle had decided to go to the city (I wasn’t invited) for “one last pub crawl,” in the words of Donelle. When I asked Genevieve if she was up for the trip, she predictably snapped at me, told me to mind my own business, not to bury her just yet, etc.

  But I was getting used to her ways. Being an adult (and a therapist) let me see her differently—a woman fearful of losing her status and power, afraid of acknowledging her mortality. I could sympathize, even if I still didn’t like her a whole heck of a lot.

  But she was wonderful with Riley. Maybe it was the generational difference. I had to admit I kind of loved seeing them together, my daughter amiably sparring with the woman I’d once called the Gorgon, and more than holding her own. Gigi was more affectionate with Riley, too; she’d smooth her hand over Riley’s hair, and Riley would say, “I should charge for this.”

  At any rate, Sheerwater was mine for the weekend. Me, and twenty-some-odd rooms at my disposal. The upshot of this was I was having my own sleepover party. But first, I had to talk to Jamilah.

  Jason and I had had dinner the other night, just the two of us. It had been nice . . . sort of. We talked mostly about Riley and her wonderfulness, how good she was with her brothers. I told him she’d been helping Miller’s nanny with Tess, and he said yes, Riley had texted him a picture of her and Tess. I hadn’t gotten that picture, but hey. I’d always been glad my daughter and her father had a solid relationship. If he wasn’t in her life enough to be a proper role model, he liked and loved her, and that was more than a lot of people got, myself included.

  I steered the conversation to college, and he said he’d give whatever he could. “I was kind of hoping for a number, Jase,” I said. “We’ll be filling out the forms soon, and they ask for that kind of thing.”

  “Gotcha,” he said. “Well, we’ll see what kind of scholarships she gets first, right?”

  “Wrong. First they determine need, so we won’t know how much we need until we know how much she has.”

  “I meant academic scholarships. Or sports! I mean, she’s good at soccer. We played with the boys the other night down at the high school.”

  “She’s not good enough to get a D1 scholarship, Jason. And even if she gets a merit scholarship—”

  “Why don’t we talk about it when I’m at my computer?” he said. “It’s hard to know where I’ll be next year, financially speaking. Of course I want my daughter to go to college, and of course I’ll help, Em. Don’t worry so much.”

  That was a line he’d said a lot in the past sixteen and a half years, and as usual, it irritated me.

  Then again, the therapist side of me murmured in the gentle, soothing voice that he had a point. The mother part of me wanted to kick him and demand a check for a quarter mil, but what could you do?

  But then he leaned forward and filled me in on some gossip about one of our classmates. He was a good storyteller and bore more than a passing resemblance to Jake Gyllenhaal, and we were coparents.

  And now my daughter was staying with his not-quite ex-wife. I turned onto their road, drove up to the top of the hill and pulled into their driveway.

  Jason had neglected to tell me he lived in paradise. Sure, I’d Google-stalked their address, but as Jamilah worked for Google, the picture was blurred out for privacy reasons.

  It was a sharply modern house, white stucco and lots of glass. Perched on the hill as it was, it had killer views of Long Island Sound. The front yard was landscaped with precisely trimmed boxwoods and a single Japanese maple bearing rich red leaves. The walk was blue flagstone set in polished cement, and the light fixtures were art deco. On the porch hung three huge Boston ferns. Not a dead leaf on them.

  The cool factor was choking me. I knocked.

  Almost immediately, Jamilah opened the door, wearing a long, flowing red dress with spaghetti straps. I guess motherhood hadn’t done to her boobs what it had done to mine. Her earrings were simple, thin gold strands. Did she have to be dazzlingly beautiful and stylish on top of everything else? (Also, where could I get that dress?) “Hi,” she said.

  I fixed my face. “Hey! How are you? What a lovely home! It’s amazing! So tasteful.” Muzzle it, London, I said to myself.

  “Great to see you, Emma,” she said. “Come on in. I’ve made us tea.”

  Of course she had. I didn’t even like tea, but I suspected I would soon be converted.

  “Where are the boys?” I asked.

  “They’re at karate,” she s
aid. “Jason will bring them home by six, but of course, Riley is welcome anytime.”

  “Uh, yeah, um . . . I guess Jason will swing by and get her? Or I can drive her up.”

  “No need for you to make another trip,” she said. “Unless you want to. Um, I guess you want to make sure it’s okay for her to stay here?”

  The house was just as gorgeous on the inside. “I’m sorry to be a dork about this. It’s just that we don’t really know each other that well . . .”

  “I’d do the same thing,” she said. “Have a seat.”

  I did. “You have two sons and a white couch. Are you magic?”

  She laughed, and I felt the tug of liking her. A tea tray was set on the coffee table, as well as a plate of pastel-colored macarons. “Sugar?” she asked. “Milk, lemon, honey?”

  “Just black is fine.”

  She poured me a cup. “I’m a little nervous,” she said. “Sorry if I’m overcompensating.”

  “No, no! It’s fine. It’s great. It’s lovely. Genevieve would heartily approve.”

  Jamilah looked up and smiled a little. “I guess I want to impress you.”

  “Really? I want to impress you, too!”

  She smiled. “Well, you’ve raised the world’s most perfect child, and you’re Jason’s first love, so . . .” She raised an elegant eyebrow at me, and I wondered when I’d last plucked mine. They tended to resemble large, scary caterpillars if I went too long.

  “That’s very nice of you,” I said. “You’re pretty damn impressive, too, Jamilah.” I took a sip of tea. Yes. It was delicious, damn it. “I guess I just wanted to ask the usual questions for sleepovers. You’ll be here the whole time?”

  “Of course.”

  “Any other adults?”

  “No, just me.” She sipped her tea. “We don’t have any guns in the house, and we have a cat but no dogs. The pool has an alarm on it in case anyone falls in. No drugs in the house, maybe half a bottle of white wine, and we don’t use Tide Pods.”

  Well. That about covered it. I felt a little stupid.

  “Let me show you around,” Jamilah said, and so I saw the guest room where my daughter would stay. There was already a framed picture of her, Owen and Duncan on the bureau, and a framed print of Paris—Riley was taking French. She had her own bathroom. The boys shared a bedroom, appropriately sloppy but clean. There was a finished basement with a huge TV.

  “I limit the boys to an hour of TV and another hour of screen time,” Jamilah said. “On school nights, they can’t watch TV, but in the summer . . .”

  “Sure. Loosen the rules a little.”

  “Do you think that’s too much?”

  She was asking my opinion! “No, that sounds good. What about you, though? You work for Google, so you must be on the computer all the time.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I only work part-time, though, and I try to compartmentalize it so I’m not always checking.”

  “That’s very healthy.”

  We nodded at each other, that awkward moment when we’d run out of compliments. “Well. I guess I’ll be going, then.”

  “Did Jason tell you why we’re separated?” she asked.

  Ah. The good stuff. “No, not really. Just that things were . . . hard.”

  She looked out the window and toyed with the ring on her finger. The huge wonking diamond engagement ring on her finger, to be exact. I wondered how much tuition that would cover. “He had a . . . what did he call it? An emotional affair.”

  “Oh, fuck.” Bad answer, Emma! “Sorry. I mean, that must be hard.”

  “I like your first answer better.” She sighed. “It’s so embarrassing. A Facebook affair with his college girlfriend.”

  I flinched, then pushed my hair back to cover.

  I had been Jason’s college girlfriend. Or so I’d thought. Not the only one, apparently.

  “I probably shouldn’t have told you that,” Jamilah went on, “but I didn’t want you to think it was over something frivolous. I mean, your daughter is part of our family, even if she’s not here. If Jason and I divorce, that will still be true.”

  “That’s very kind of you. She likes you a lot, Jamilah.”

  “I don’t believe in evil stepmothers. She was here first. I mean, I hope Jason and I will get through this, but . . .” Her eyes teared up, and on impulse, I gave her a hug. She smelled fantastic (of course).

  “Thank you,” she said, hugging me back. She stepped away and got a tissue and wiped her eyes. “I hope it’s okay that I told you. I wanted Jason to tell you, but I said if he didn’t, I would. I guess he took the easy way out.”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “God, of course! Who do I think I’m talking to? Honestly, I think you’re a saint for being so generous with him.”

  “I also think I’m a saint.” She grinned. “Hey, Jamilah, there’s one thing. Courtney and Robert have never met Riley, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

  “Totally understandable. I can’t believe the way they’ve treated her. Or not treated her. And believe me, I’ve given them a piece of my mind about that.”

  “Really!”

  “Of course! They’re horrible. Courtney is so fake. For years, I thought if I just kept scratching away at the surface, something else would be there. Nope. She’s all surface. You know what she calls Owen and Duncan? ‘My black grandchildren.’ I’m always introduced as her black daughter-in-law. You know. Just in case someone might miss that. It’s like it ups her social status to whip out my race whenever possible. In case people are blind and can’t see for themselves. My parents hate her.”

  “She’s always been a climber. When I was a teenager, she would try to crawl so far up my grandmother’s butt . . .”

  “She still does. She tries to make it seem like she and Genevieve did their best with you, agonized over your wild ways and tried to woo you back home, but you were extremely selfish and out of control.’”

  “I was a pregnant grocery clerk living with her grandfather, going to city college part-time.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You and I need to go out for a glass of wine.”

  I smiled. “I think that’s a great idea.”

  From the kitchen counter, her phone chimed, and she picked it up. “Jason’s on his way with all three kids. You’re welcome to stick around.”

  “Actually, I’m having a sleepover myself. My friend from Chicago is coming, and do you know Beth Guida? The florist?”

  “Sure.”

  “Of course you know her. You live here. She’s my bestie from high school, and we’re going to take advantage of Sheerwater.” I paused. “Too bad you can’t come.”

  She tipped her head. “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes! Is there any reason Jason can’t spend the weekend with his three children?”

  She smiled. “Give me five minutes, and I’ll pack my bag.”

  * * *

  * * *

  If there was anything better than four women sitting on a deck, drinking margaritas and watching the sunset, I didn’t know what it was. Minuet sat on my lap, curled into a tiny cinnamon bun shape. Mac was in the side yard, barking at nothing, and the other three dogs were elsewhere, farting and shedding and doing their thing.

  “I can’t believe you walked away from this house,” Calista said. “I could live here with Satan and be happy.”

  “With Justin Bieber, even,” Beth said. “Or the Kardashians.”

  “I love the Kardashians,” Jamilah said. “Don’t judge me.”

  “Too late. I’m sorry.”

  Everyone snickered.

  “Calista,” Beth said. “Have you met the staff? Sheerwater has a staff. A cook and a driver and a live-in housekeeper. And a fleet of purebred dogs.”

  “No butler? Sad,” Calista said. “I should’ve been born an he
ir. Would’ve made my student loans a lot easier to pay off.”

  “Okay,” I said, “first of all, I’m not an heir, and my student loans will be smiling at me when I’m on my deathbed. Secondly, the cook hates people, food and cooking, so it’s not what it sounds like. The meat is gray, the soup is Campbell’s, and she’ll bite you if you try to make something yourself,” I said.

  “Is it hard, being the one percent?” Beth said, and we all laughed.

  “Thirdly . . . are we on three? The housekeeper sits on the couch and makes Riley nurse her infected, fungal toenail—”

  “No!” Jamilah said. “Give me custody. That’s clearly child abuse.”

  “—and hasn’t used a vacuum cleaner since the nineties. The many dogs, some of whom humped you when you came in and are even now peeing on your suitcases, rub their butts over the carpets, puke and poop everywhere. Watch where you step.” I paused. “The driver is kind of awesome. And single, Beth.”

  “And gay, Emma,” she said.

  “He is? Shoot. I didn’t know.”

  “He’s been dating the postmaster for at least ten years. Where have you been?”

  “Chicago,” I said, and maybe it was the tequila, but we all thought that was hilarious.

  “So, Emma,” Calista said, “you haven’t asked me if you have Ebola or leprosy or exploding head syndrome since you came out here. Did you retire from being a hypochondriac?”

  “Oh, no! There goes my hobby!” It was true. Maybe because I was around someone who did have a brain tumor, but I hadn’t been testing my neurological function as much as I usually did. “Speaking of that, what do you think about Genevieve?”

  “Hard to say, since I haven’t met her.”

  “Based on what I told you, though.”

  “Really hard to diagnose over the phone, hon.”

  “What’s going on with Genevieve?” Jamilah asked. “Is she sick?”

  “It doesn’t seem that way to me,” I said. “But I was summoned here this summer because she said she has cancer. A brain tumor, specifically. She said she was dying.”